Rating: PG
Pairing: Speed/Calleigh
Feedback: Makes my day
Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.
Archive: At my site The Band Gazebo) , anywhere else, please ask.
Summary: What Speed relies on
Notes: For the LiveJournal Writer's Choice "Drive" challenge, another one of my circuitous responses. Title comes from the Nanci Griffith song of the same name. The character of Jessie is mine, from a story called The View from a Glass House

Speed loves to ride his motorcycle at night. Which he knows probably isn't a good idea from a safety point of view, especially when most of the time, he doesn't bother with a helmet, but he doesn't care. There's nothing like speeding through the streets with nothing between him and the dark night but the air rushing against his skin; it makes him feel alive, always has done, even when there were times when he drove like this that he wished he weren't.

He knows exactly when he developed a taste for night travelling; during those first two years at Columbia, when he would go home every weekend without fail to see Jessie, leaving it until the last possible moment on the Sunday night to return, because he wanted to squeeze in as much time with his best friend as he could. Those would be the nights when he would drive as fast as he could, far faster than the speed limit, as if by sheer speed he could outrun the guilt of being all right when she wasn't, the sheer crashing unfairness of the whole situation.

But he'd never be able to do that.

He remembers vividly the night he made the drive back to Syracuse on a moment's notice because Jessie's mom had called him, said that she was sick and in the hospital and that she was asking for him. He remembers the terror that fuelled his journey, travelling quickly even by his standards, so fearful was he that she'd be gone by the time he got there.

He remembers the last time he drove from Syracuse to Columbia, right after the funeral, remembers even more clearly the drive away from the school when he didn't have a clue where he was heading, knowing only that he couldn't stay there. That drive had been begun in the dead of night as well; he snuck out of his dorm like a criminal, not wanting to answer any questions, not that he could have. He left behind him all his school supplies, a note for his room-mate, and the next morning, he stopped in a small town, mailed a note to the college and his parents, apologising.

Then he got on his bike and kept on driving.

He drove until he couldn't drive any more, then he stopped in the next town, got himself a motel room and some sleep, the next day finding a job, getting some money behind him. He stayed there for a couple of weeks, then left, once again in the middle of the night, once again driving until he couldn't drive any more. He kept repeating the same pattern in a hundred different towns, never connecting with anyone, never staying for long, and always, always leaving in the middle of the night.

Those nocturnal journeys were the best part of that year, those nights when he would strap his bag to the back of the bike, look up at the sky and follow the moon, heading wherever it shone brightest. And always when he was travelling, he would carry with him the one sentimental item he'd allowed himself to keep; the Saint Christopher medallion that Jessie had given him when they'd graduated high school. He'd been surprised by the gift, because he wasn't especially religious, nor was she. But she'd told him through a mist of tears, lying in her hospital bed, that she'd chosen it months earlier, when they were planning their summer trip through Europe, and she'd thought that the patron saint of travellers might come in handy. He'd found the gift ironic at the time, but in those twelve months that he'd spent driving all over America, he'd worn it all the time.

Then he'd landed in Miami, had been blindsided by all the memories of his time there with Jessie, back when things had been normal between them. A spur of the moment decision to visit her uncle, a criminalist in the crime lab, had been the beginning of his new life, and aside from the year he'd spent at Columbia, finishing his degree, he's lived here ever since.

He's settled down, made friends, put down some roots.

But there are nights, like this one, where he has to take out the bike, finger the still shiny gold of his Saint Christopher medal, and follow the moon.

He only stops driving when he reaches a familiar house, pulls into a familiar drive. He's not surprised that he's ended up here, because while it's not his place, it might as well be. Lately, on nights like this, he's always ended up here. The moon is bright overhead, as bright as the light on her front porch, and he slides the Saint Christopher into his pocket as he walks up the steps, knocks lightly on the door.

The woman who answers the door looks nothing like Jessie; long straight blonde hair instead of auburn ringlets, green eyes rather than brown. But the smile is similar, as is the light in her eyes as she looks up at him. "I know it's late…" he begins, is cut off with a shake of her head.

"Don't worry," she says, stepping back to let him in, laying a hand on his arm as he walks past her. "You're right on time."

He smiles at her words, slips his arms around her waist, buries his head in her hair for a brief moment before pulling back, kissing the top of her head. She smiles up at him, lays a hand on his stubbled cheek, and there are no words to be said just then, or later, when he lies on his back, with Calleigh asleep in his arms. Through the window, he can see the moon shining brightly, and he smiles, sending a silent prayer of thanks to Jessie for the moon and Saint Christopher.

They've always brought him to just where he needs to be.

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